


Song of the Seasman

by Fairleigh



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Merpeople, Mpreg, No Dialogue, Seduction, Sexual Content, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/pseuds/Fairleigh
Summary: Moro heard the singing first, pitched low and sonorous. It was all melody, no discernible words. He thought for certain he was dreaming.
Relationships: Lighthousekeeper/Merman, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	Song of the Seasman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shamebucket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shamebucket/gifts).



Moro heard the singing first, pitched low and sonorous. It was all melody, no discernible words. He thought for certain he was dreaming.

His dreams had become especially vivid of late, more so now that his days were spent in the self-imposed solitude of his chosen vocation.

All things considered, he preferred solitude. Life was better this way. More peaceful. Here, out on the cold, windswept granite of Hydrashead Island, he could do good work; he could light the way and keep the boatsmen safe. Boatsmen only needed to see the light. They didn’t need to see _him_.

Although a landsman by blood, Moro made his fellow landsmen nervous. Or, to be precise, _his eyes_ made his fellow landsmen nervous. Landsmen were meant to have brown eyes, brown like the color of their skin, brown like the fertile soil of the earth. Moro’s eyes, however, were gray-green, gray-green like the scales of a fish or the storms-tossed sea. Many thought his eyes unnatural, ill-omened, and the landsmen tribes had not wanted him walking amongst them.

So, he did not. Not anymore. When the position of Hydrashead Island Lighthousekeeper had become vacant, Moro had leapt at the opportunity. There hadn’t been much competition — he’d been the only candidate to put himself forward, as it turned out — and now he tended the fire of the lighthouse lamp.

Boatsmen provided regular tributes of fuel for the lamp. These packages could be retrieved from the shoals at low tide. Moro was collecting one of these fuel tributes the first time he saw the seasman.

~*~*~

The midsummer day was cloudless and fair, and the seasman was sunning himself on a rock and singing. So it hadn’t been a dream after all.

Seasmen were generally known to prefer tropical waters, and seeing them on coasts this far south of the equator was rare. Certainly landsmen like Moro, born to tribes in this part of the world, could live their entire lives without ever having met one.

This was a rare opportunity. Moro hesitated for but a moment — would the seasman fear him for the color of his eyes? But no, surely not! Not when you look like, well. Like _that_.

The seasman was painted in the colors of the rainbow, blue and black and purple and yellow, and in the sunlight, he glowed. His colors seemed to shift and pulse in tandem with the rhythm of his song, and even after Moro had called out a friendly greeting and began his approach, the seasman did not stop singing.

Moro felt lightheaded, almost dizzy. The sight of the seasman, the sound of his singing, and even his natural scent, musky yet floral, were almost overpowering. When he sat down next to the seasman, so close they were practically touching, he didn’t feel like he was in control of his own body … And when the seasman’s hand with its webbed fingers reached up to touch Moro’s face, he leaned instinctively into the caress … And when the seasman pulled him into a passionate embrace, he did not resist.

Moro had never been touched before. Not by woman, not by man. He felt the urgency of his arousal, but he didn’t know what to do or how to respond. He had only the vaguest ideas about what two men might do with one another. So when the scales on the seasman’s underside began to soften and part and an erect member pushed out into the open air, Moro was shocked. Then he became scared.

He fled back to the safety of the lighthouse and pretended not to hear the seasman’s disappointed cries.

~*~*~

Moro thought that would be the end of that. The seasman would return to the sea, and Moro would return to his quiet, solitary life of tending the light.

But the seasman did not leave. The seasman stayed, and every day, long into the night, he sang to Moro.

The seasman wanted him. Moro didn’t understand why. He only understood that the song made him want the seasman in return. He would listen to the music drifting into his bedroom along with the salt air through the open window, and he would touch himself and finger himself open. It took months to work to overcome his fear, but eventually, he thought was no longer afraid.

On the last day of summer, he joined the seasman on his favorite sun-warmed rock …

… and then he agreed to join with him.

They undulated together like they were swimming in a sea of love, and the kisses and caresses they shared were so hot that they burned away Moro’s fear of being penetrated utterly. The second time the scales on the seasman’s underside started to soften and part, Moro was ready. He laid himself down flat on his back, lifted his hips, and spread his legs wide. But to his surprise, no erect member emerged from behind the seasman’s scales. The seasman smiled as he fell onto Moro’s erection and brought him to orgasm like that, engulfed in the seasman’s slick, wet heat.

~*~*~

Autumn arrived the following morn, and howling, icy winds and driving rain drowned out all other sound on Hydrashead Island. If the seasman was singing, Moro could not hear him.

Moro neither saw the seasman again nor heard his song again.

He tried not to ask himself questions because questions were too painful. Had the seasman regretted their sexual congress? No, surely not. It had been too sweet; they had cuddled for hours afterwards. Surely it was just down to the onset of winter, and like the whales and the birds, the seasman had fled back north towards warmer weather, chased by the cold. Yes, that had to be it. And why was Moro acting so upset, anyway? He was alone again, and he wanted to be alone. He liked it! He’d chosen his vocation for that very reason! The crying he was doing into his pillow each night was silly.

Autumn turned to winter, and winter turned to spring. Slowly but surely, spring gave way to summer. And in the long, bright days of midsummer, the seasman returned.

Moro heard the singing first, pitched low and sonorous. It was all melody, no discernible words. He thought for certain he was dreaming.

He wasn’t dreaming. Moro’s beloved seasman was there, sunning himself on his favorite rock, a riot of brilliant rainbow hues. In his arms, the seasman held an infant.

The scales on the infant’s stubby fish tail were gray-green. They were the same color as Moro’s eyes.


End file.
